


In Time, A Swell

by dmajor7th



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Childbirth, Childhood Abandonment Trauma, Complex Father-Daughter Relationship, Death, F/M, Gen, Knight Ashe, Marriage, Non-Graphic Childbirth Scene, Non-Graphic Deathbed Scene, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28504818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dmajor7th/pseuds/dmajor7th
Summary: Ashe is a knight, but he is not Gilbert.Ashe is a husband, but he is not Gustave.Ashe is a father, but he ishere.Gustave passes onto the Goddess. Annette becomes a mother.
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic & Gilbert Pronislav, Annette Fantine Dominic/Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert
Comments: 4
Kudos: 53





	In Time, A Swell

**Author's Note:**

> With immense thanks to the ever delightful [Metallic_Sweet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metallic_Sweet) for being being my beta, my teacher and my most excellent friend.

The glorious weather makes it easy to miss the ghosts that haunt the cemetery. 

Annette swelters under her black veil. She is two moons away from giving birth, and her belly has grown so heavy that simple movements have become arduous. 

Ashe braces her shoulder to keep her steady as she kneels down by the grave. 

“Thank you,” she says, lifting a hand to brush his fingers with her own. The fresh calluses on his knuckles feel rough under her touch. She hopes they heal fully before his imminent deployment out West.

She turns her attention back to the headstone. Her mouth presses into a thin line as she contemplates its condition. 

Faerghan weather is brutal. The marble has ashened with dust and yellowed from the rain; moss has crept into the grooves of the inscription; the emblem of the Knights of Serios has lost the sharpness of its edges.

The lichen looks like a thousand green eyes interrogating her. _What took you so long?_

She slips a hand into her pocket and pulls out a handkerchief. Her other hand lowers to the ground to steady herself. She leans forward and does what she can to wipe the grime away, moving in methodical, circular motions. 

The heavy sway of her body makes her feel seasick. The heel of her palm slides in the mud. 

Righting herself back onto her heels is an unsteady task. Ashe’s hands hover around her arms, ready to catch her. She manages to find an easy seat, and settles back down on her heels to appraise her work. The dirt has been more shifted around than removed, but the looping cursive of the name is a little clearer than before. 

Her white gloves are badly soiled, but her hand instinctively moves to her belly all the same. The three of them—four of them—exist together for a quiet moment.

“It’s good to see you again, father,” Annette says softly into the wind.

—

Annette stands outside of her father’s bedchamber, frigid fingers curled stiff against the laden tea tray between her hands. She kicks the door again in lieu of knocking; the first time, she’d received no response.

"Father, it's me," she calls out, growing impatient.

Silence. 

A chambermaid scurries past with her head bowed low. Annette ignores the weight of her averted gaze. 

Bringing Sir Gustave his morning tea is work unbefitting of a Baroness, but Annette insisted the duty be hers alone. His moments of quiet vulnerability were too precious to miss.

She presses her ear to the door.

Nothing.

A long-dead spectre of a child's worries rears its head. _I’ve woken him up. He’s displeased. I’m a bother. I should leave._

“No,” she whispers to the room, gripping the tray with more conviction.

She takes a breath and squares her shoulders.

“Father, stop being silly and answer me!” she says, louder this time.

The wordless seconds gather into a minute.

Something is wrong.

Annette rushes the tray onto the floor. She straightens up and pounds at the door with a closed fist.

 _“Father!_ ”

The china cups rattle against the wood.

 _He’s getting older_ , her mind supplies, a desperate attempt to placate. 

_His ears are waxy._

_He snores too loud._

_He can’t hear me._

_He’s not listening._

“Father, speak to me! _Please_!”

—

“She’ll have your eyes,” Ashe says, pulling Annette’s back flush against his chest. His arms snake under hers, looping around her body. His hands come to lay against her still-flat stomach.

“How do you know it will be a girl?” Annette says, sinking back into him. Sitting propped-up like this, she has found, is the best thing to help with the nausea. There is a blanket draped over both their bodies. She feels cosy and safe.

“Just a hunch,” Ashe says, pressing a soft kiss to the back of her neck. “We can name her after your mother. Joselyn has been such a help. I don't know how we’ll ever thank her.”

Beyond the window, the world is white and crisp with snow. Soft winter light steeples past the curtain and blankets the room with a muted calm.

“We don’t do that in my family,” Annette says.

“Do what? Name children after relatives?” Ashe replies.

“Name them after the living," Annette says, fiddling with one of the blanket’s tassels. “It’s considered bad luck. Like you’re trying to replace them or something.”

“Alright then,” Ashe laughs softly, “what about something similar, but different? Josephine, perhaps?”

“Josephine,” Annette says, rolling the name on her tongue. “Josephine.”

Ashe runs a finger up and down Annette’s arm. “And I was thinking, for a boy...Lonato?”

Annette pauses, then says, “Even after everything?”

Ashe’s finger stills. “He was still my father,” he says quietly.

Annette absently wraps the tassel around her fingertip. “What about your real parents?”

“I barely remember them.”

The chill of the winter air hangs still in the room. Annette snuggles down further into the blanket.

“Anyway,” Ashe says, “I prayed to the Goddess last night, asking her to bless us with a girl. You deserve to have a daughter.” 

Annette tips her head upwards, looking at Ashe’s chin. “What does that mean?”

“I want you to have someone to do all the things you love doing. Make-up and hair and baking.”

“I’m a disaster in the kitchen,” Annette says.

“I know. But you still love to try.”

Annette smiles. Her chin drops down as her body relaxes back against Ashe’s.

She’s been so consumed by the overwhelming newness of it all that she hadn’t stopped to consider how fun things might be. Putting together cute little outfits. Braiding tiny plaits out of baby hair. Humming lullabies in the quiet of the night.

“And I will read her books,” Ashe says, “Fantastical adventures full of courageous knights and wicked dragons. She will grow up to be brave and beautiful, just like her mother.”

A tide swells in Annette’s chest. The world feels a little bit warmer.

—

Death is a loud, untidy thing.

Through the heavy oak door of Gustave’s bedchamber comes a muffled cacophony of commotion. Heavy furniture scraping against the floor; the housekeeper yelling at the chambermaids; the sound of weeping in the distance. 

Annette hears none of it. 

She stands before her father’s cooling body, taking in the puff of his barrel chest and the muted tones of his once brilliant hair. Dappled in the dying light of the late afternoon sun he is solid. Present. Real.

She inhales.

Draped over his body is a sheet emblazoned with the shield of House Dominic, the top of the fabric folded down to his chest.

 _He looks so small_ , she thinks.

It suddenly occurs to her that she has not moved from this spot all day. 

_When did we last spend this much time together?_

She takes a step forward.

Looking down at her father’s face does not make her chest swell with grief. A wave of guilt pulses through her.

The last of the twilight fades to blue. From the gardens the evening chorus begins. Owls. Blackbirds. Nightingales. 

_Will you haunt me in death as you did in life? I became accustomed to your ghost._

She lays a hand over his heart. Feels for what she knows is not there. 

It is too now dark to make out his features.

She bends down to press a kiss to his forehead. His skin is cold against her lips.

“Goodbye, father,” she whispers, pulling the sheet over his head.

—

The wedding of Baroness Dominic and Count Gaspard takes place a month after Dimitri’s coronation. 

It is, by necessity, a simple affair. Basic provisions are in short supply, and the churches of Fhirdiad still lay in ruins. 

The ceremony is held in the gardens of the Dominic estate. Seteth insists on officiating. Mercedes bakes the cake. 

Ashe wears attire befitting of his position as Lord Gaspard and as a knight of the realm. Annette looks resplendent in her bridal gown.

The friends who had made it through the war joined them. Some needed to be guided by the hand to their seats. Others had to be wheeled in their own chair onto the lawn. The couple had requested neither gifts nor gold; instead, they asked for only donations towards the relief effort.

The night before the ceremony, Annette sat at her vanity whilst Joselyn brushed her hair. In the mirror she watched the graceful movements of her mother’s hands, mottled red and intractably sore from a war’s worth of magical windburn. 

“Are you excited for tomorrow?” Joselyn asked, sparkles of joy peppering her words.

Annette blinked. She felt many things. Finding a smile, she replied, “Of course. And I thank the Goddess that both you and father can be there.”

“As a family,” Joselyn said. Her smile reached her eyes. 

Joselyn pulled gently at the comb; the brush made easy work of the knots in Annette’s hair.

“Before the war I’d always dreamed of making your wedding dress myself. It’s a shame my fingers aren’t up to it now,” Joselyn said. “In days gone by I would have been frightfully upset, but the war has taught us what really matters. We are truly blessed that the Goddess spared us all to see this day.”

Joselyn put down the brush on the vanity and placed a hand on Annette’s shoulder. 

“May your father and I live long enough to witness all the beautiful things in your future.”

—

Annette heaves her body upright and props herself against the headboard. She looks at Ashe with wide eyes.

“It’s not an order I can refuse, my love. Please have faith in my intentions," Ashe says softly.

“I didn’t say anything.”

Ashe can’t meet her eyes. Her own gaze lowers down to the heavy blanket draped across her bloated body. 

“Our child is due in _two moons_ ,” she says, voice quiet and strained.

Ashe’s expression is uncharacteristically grim. It does not suit his soft, round features. In his hand he holds a letter. The azure wax of the royal seal along it’s folds is snapped clean in half. 

He draws a breath, but it takes a moment before he speaks again. In that liminal space, a terror of possibilities races through Annette’s mind, taking shape as a congress of ghosts with familiar faces.

Ashe sighs and sits on the bed beside her, placing a hand on her swollen ankle. He has that infuriating, placating look in his eyes he gets when he’s lost for words.

“It will be ok, my love,” he says with earnest, rubbing circles into her skin with his thumb. “It will be ok.”

The primal maw inside Annette commands her to scream. She fights it and forces herself instead to feel grateful. Grateful that Ashe has been appointed captain of the royal guard. Grateful that His Highness is lucid enough not to ignore the storm brewing in the west from Albinea’s growing ambitions.

Annette feels her cheeks grow hot. Ashe shifts forward and pulls her face into the crook of his neck. 

Her fists grip tight into the blanket, and everything pours out from her with hiccoughing gasps.

“It will be ok,” he says again, a mantra bleeding out meaning with every reprise. He runs his fingers through hair that’s become unrecognisably thick and curly. “It will all be ok.”

She sighs. To Annette, Ashe is infinite, precious things: a doting husband; a warm companion; a present father to her unborn child. 

But to the Kingdom, Ashe is a single weapon in an arsenal of thousands. He is sharper and quicker and more entrusted than most, but his death would not tear the country asunder as it would her own life.

 _I will be grateful_ , Annette chooses to think once more. Grateful that Ashe gets to live out his dream. Grateful that her King is sound of mind and benevolent of heart. 

Grateful that he leaves their home on the King’s command and not of his own accord.

—

On their wedding night they lie back together, panting and sore on their matrimonial bed—an extravagant, four poster affair gifted from House Dominic—flushed and sweating in the cool summer air.

Annette feels a hand grasping her own. Her gaze turns towards her husband. 

Ashe’s eyes are dark with wonderment. “I’ve never–”

“I know,” Annette says, cutting him off. She does not need to hear what she’s already inferred.

Ashe squeezes her hand. “Was this your–”

“Yes,” she lies, squeezing back.

“I love you,” he says simply. His earnestness is vehement. Profound.

Annette smiles this time, small but genuine. _Really_ takes him in. The silver of his hair. The dusting of freckles over his nose. The brilliant jade of his eyes. 

_It will fall to me to bury you_ , she thinks.

It is not a premonition; it is a fact. Ashe is a knight who serves a king to a continent held together by loose threads and fraying stitches. He will stand ahead of the King’s body both as shield and bow, protecting his liege with all that he is and all that he has. 

“My love?” Ashe says, tucking a stray lock of her hair behind her ear.

 _Till death do us part_ , Seteth had made them swear at the altar.

“This is the happiest day of my life,” she says, making her smile reach her eyes.

—

This week's letter arrives flecked in mud.

 _11_ _th_ _of the Guardian Moon, 1188_

_My love,_

_Wonderful news! The Albinians have finally come to their senses. The Admiral of the attacking flotilla conceded that she and her paltry crew are no match against the gallant might of the Kingdom. This morning, her fleet was docked into Newport—the one situated in the delta between the old border—whilst the flagship's mast hoisted the cowardly white of surrender._

_I thank the Goddess that His Highness has emerged from the battle unscathed. He will be overseeing the terms of the capitulation personally. We're hoping to complete the negotiations within the moon, but you know how these things are._

_With Dedue having returned to Duscur to continue his great work on the orphanage, His Highness has bestowed upon me the great honour of acting as his personal bodyguard until the treaty is ratified, and for the journey back north to Fhirdiad._

Annette's gaze falters from the letter. Her hand instinctively slides down to cradle her tremendous belly. 

_I know this is probably not what you want to hear, my love, but I have given this much thought. I want to do right by our child._

_To protect His Highness is to protect all of Fódlan, and I want to play my part in bringing a peace to the continent that we ourselves have not known since childhood. I want our child to grow up in a world where their life will never be touched by what we had to survive through. I want them to go through life in its entirety without ever needing to wash blood off their hands._

_I would give anything to be by your side at this moment—to rub your shoulders and fetch you tea and soothe your worried soul. But the simple things I wish for—freedom, love, happiness—can only come by defending His Highness._

_Many years ago, your father told me this: one cannot be a knight unless one has something to protect._

_As a knight of the realm I may guard His Highness, but you are what I live to protect._

_I will be home as quickly as the Goddess wills it._

_Give a dram of my love to your mother, and take all the rest for yourself._

_With eternal devotion,_

_Ashe_

_This is not the same_ , Annette thinks. She feels her face grow hot.

Louder, this time, to any ghosts who may be listening: “This is _not_ the same.”

—

“It’s sweet that he offered to be there,” Joselyn says, stirring a bowl of spiced porridge. “In my day, it was considered bad luck for the father to even be in the same _building_ during the birth.”

“That sounds awfully lonely,” Annette says, rubbing her belly.

A week away from labour, and her body is so enormous that breathing has become difficult. She lies propped up in bed, feeling moored to the pillows, and grateful for her mother’s presence.

Joselyn pauses thoughtfully, then says, “I don’t think we ever questioned it. Your father certainly didn’t. Chin up, now.”

She lifts the spoon from the bowl and reaches out towards Annette, feeding her daughter. 

“You’ll be doing this yourself all too soon,” she says.

Annette swallows her mouthful. Winces. The heartburn is strong today.

“Yeah,” she says distantly.

Joselyn places the bowl on the nightstand and moves a hand to Annette’s forehead, stroking gently at her daughter’s hair.

“Are you alright?” she says.

“I’m great!” Annette replies, brightening her tone.

Inside, a heavy weight settles in Annette’s stomach. The last conversation she had with Ashe before he took off for the border replays in her mind: 

_I can’t wait to welcome our baby into the world_ , he had said, taking her hand in his. _I hope you don’t break my fingers._ _But I’ll forgive you if you do._

A thorn of doubt stabs at her: _Maybe he didn’t mean it. Maybe he was just being nice._

She shoos the thought away. No, Ashe is too sincere by half. Honest and kind and loyal to a fault.

 _Loyal to His Highness_ , a goading voice in her mind says. _And to you_ , a kinder, gentler voice adds. 

She paces her breathing as best she can. Thinks of his latest letter:

 _You are what I live to protect_.

—

Annette had nearly died, once.

The battlefield was a mania of smoke and steel. She was stationed at the rear with a cabal of mages. They formed a wall around the King’s tent whilst staying far from the reach of lances and swords.

A fortress of armour caught her eye. It was too far back from the front line; knights had no reason to be here.

She turned to look at the soldier. An imposing figure, shoulders set and resolute, trudged along the muddied path that led from the King’s tent towards the pandemonium. The blue scarf that enshrouded their neck was caked with filth.

She looked towards their trajectory. A sorcerous, purple fog hung thickly in the air over the dirt track. Through the haze she saw a beam of light concentrating, the pinprick of violet expanding to a blinding white glare.

She broke command.

“ _Dedue!_ ” she screamed, chasing after him.

Dedue paused his march and turned to look at her. 

“Annette…”

She leaped in front of him just in time.

The Dark Spike got her right between the ribs, knocking her backwards and onto Dedue’s breastplate. 

Her body absorbed the blackness. 

The pain was like no other. It started in the centre of her chest and worked outwards, lancing under her skin like a thousand needles. It felt like all the bones in her body were melting and fusing and melting and fusing. Her heart quickened but her breathing slowed, the pressure in her chest building and building until the agony was so fierce she barely felt anything at all.

She slid down the steel of Dedue’s armour and hit the earth with a thud. 

The ground was frozen, but she felt only the burn. Her eyes were open but she could not see. 

Were it not for the countless lost nights of sleep in the library, training and training and training her resistance, she would not have made it to the next morning.

—

Annette has nearly died twice. 

At least, that’s what it feels like.

“Well done dear,” the midwife smiles. “First one’s always the hardest.”

Annette exhales. The healer had cast a powerful anesthetic spell that left her body numb and her head swimming. She is vaguely aware that when it wears off, the pain will be immense. Until then, she uses what little energy she has left to collect her thoughts. 

“Can I see my baby?” she manages weakly.

“ _Her_ ,” the midwife replies. “Won’t be a moment, dear. Sister Matilda’s just cleaning her up.”

The midwife leaves the room and returns with a screaming, wriggling bundle. She comes up to Annette and slides it into her arms.

The baby pauses its ruckus for a moment to stare up at her mother with clear emerald eyes.

Annette peers down into the depths of the future.

—

Josephine gazes upon her father for the first time, her eyes impassive and unrecognising.

Ashe beams down at her, his face as bright as an autumn moon.

“Hello, petal. My precious pearl. Beautiful little blossom,” he coos, stroking a finger down her plump cheek. 

The family sits together in the solar; the brightest room in Dominic Castle. The nursery is well prepared, but the breeze that passes through the high windows here cools Annette’s cheeks in the late summer heat. Her nursing dress is an airy, flowing thing, perfect for Horsebow Moon weather. 

Annette relaxes into her rocking chair, watching Ashe cradle Josephine in his arms. Josephine is swaddled in the same blanket that Annette’s mother wrapped her in. Time has softened the wool and turned the colour from a deep sapphire to a brilliant cornflower.

Ashe presses his finger into Josephine’s tiny palm. She grasps it reflexively, then hiccoughs and starts to whine. Ashe rocks her gently from side to side, the instinct to soothe her kicking in.

“Shh, there, there precious,” he sing-songs. 

Annette watches them with a soft gaze. She lets out a sigh.

Ashe looks up at Annette. 

“Are you alright my love?” he says.

Annette blinks. “Yes, of course,” she replies brightly, coming back to the moment. 

“Annette,” Ashe says, a small frown knitting over his brows. “No secrets.”

“Right, yes. Sorry. No secrets.”

Her gaze falls to her lap. “I just...I’m so happy that you came back.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Ashe says, cradling Josephine’s head and pressing it gently to his chest. “Annette...this is my home. _You_ are my home. You and Josie are the stars in my sky, guiding me to where I need to be. There’s not a single moment I’m away where I don’t long to be by both of your sides.”

Ashe strokes Josephine’s crown as she gurgles sleepily against him. 

“No secrets, my love—if His Highness asked me to choose between my knighthood and our family, I would throw my bow straight into the river. I used to think that being a knight was the most meaningful thing I could ever dream of. But now,” he lowers his voice, “I continue to serve His Highness not for the honour of it, but to protect you,” he kisses Josephine’s crown, “and our precious angel.”

Annette’s face feels hot. She lets out a breath, feeling lighter than she remembers knowing.

In time, Annette has come to understand this: in Fódlan, the line between the Crown and the hearth is blurry and thin. They cannot untangle themselves from their duty to their King any more than a tortoise can leave its shell. To put one’s neck in the way of the sword pointed at the Crown is to build a world in which their daughter is shielded against the trepidations of war.

But to be far away is not to be absent. To leave may be an obligation, but to return is a choice.

Ashe is a knight, but he is not Gilbert.

Ashe is a husband, but he is not Gustave.

Ashe is a father, but he is _here_.

Josephine drifts off to sleep, safe and content in her father’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hello on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/dmajor7th).


End file.
